


Horse Shoes

by CrookedBarbarian



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-02-18 06:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13094370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrookedBarbarian/pseuds/CrookedBarbarian
Summary: "Not just seen. I wanted to be significant." Golden kingdoms are built on blood and sacrifice.Claire's companion piece to Hand Grenades.





	1. Chapter 1

"Happiness isn't my concern. Not now, not ever."

The woman who would become President.

* * *

 She learned to make the sun rise at six. Already, she was sick of cowering in the darkness, sick of the fear and helplessness that all but paralyzed her. She would never shrink away again. When she opened her eyes in her bed, the bright golden orb was there to greet her. It had worked, and she learned she could do anything.

She was thirteen when she saw clothes could be armor. Statements didn't always have to be said or written. Silence could be a powerful weapon. Let people make their assumptions. Allowing others to think they knew her would only give her more power. She controlled what they saw - what they thought knew.

At fourteen, she stole one of her father's cigarettes for the first time. Her mother had her life planned out to the finest detail, but she'd be damned if she let anyone arrange her existence to suit their whims. She was nobody's toy and no one's pawn. The cigarette burnt her lungs, but the fire was its own comfort.

At fifteen, she realized that her elegant cheekbones and lithe, powerful figure could be wielded as weapons. People hung on her every word, sought her out like an addiction, did whatever she asked for a mere smile and sweep of her eyelashes. She was growing into her features, childhood loveliness giving way to magnificent beauty, and she intended to use it to her advantage.

It was also the first time she was betrayed by a lover, and by her own innocence. She had been young and naïve, and she had trusted him. Never would she trust blindly again. 

Sixteen was the first time she realized beauty could be a curse. Beautiful girls became models and then trophy wives to the prom kings after they reached the ungodly age of twenty-five. They didn't run companies, or become politicians, or god forbid, lead a country.

The first time a boy proposed, she was eighteen. Her mother was outraged at her refusal, but she'd taken so many tongue lashings, she no longer cared. The daughter of Dallas royalty wasn't going to stay in Highland Park and marry the prom king; she was going to rule her own kingdom.

At nineteen, her world shattered, and she broke, dissolving into a thousand razor sharp fragments after what he did to her. In the midst of that agony, she began to discover exactly how strong and powerful she could become. She would be damned if she let that bastard - and that gasping, sobbing, trembling little girl - destroy her.

At twenty-one, she pulled a man down on top of her for the first time since Dalton McGinnis. Francis's weight didn't crush or trap her. His body pinned her down, but instead of terrifying her, she felt safer than she had in years. She could trust him entirely, and that meant everything.

At twenty-two, she took his hand and they became partners, allies, co-conspirators. Together, they would build an empire, their own shining, magnificent realm. As yet there were no formal declarations, but they needed none; their blood oath was wrought in silence. Ambition would take them to the highest reaches of power, and in their fusion, they would become something nigh invincible.

* * *

Close only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades...


	2. Six

She bolted awake, her heart pounding against her sternum, eyes darting around in search of the monsters in the darkness. When she didn't see any, she yanked the blankets over her head and pinned them down so they couldn't get in, to make herself invisible. Her legs curled up towards her chest when she thought she felt cold on her toes. They weren't going to get her. Daddy said they couldn't get her… She peaked out again, just barely, and caught the pool of silver moonlight on the carpet from the window.

Biting her lip, she debated the merits of leaving the safety of her makeshift bunker, but most of her was sick to death of waking up like this every night, trying to not make a single noise as she waited to fall back asleep. Nighttime was horrible. She deplored the dark and what could be hiding in it. But she was determined she wouldn't be afraid forever. Stealing herself, Claire wrapped the blanket around herself and carefully perched herself in the window seat. Her little hands shook as she yanked the curtains open and her knees were back under her chin as soon as she'd made herself comfortable, but she wasn't going to live like this anymore. Stars winked at her, all but the strongest obscured by the city's lights, and she focused on those pinpoints, and the soft golden splashes from the streetlights on the sidewalk. A cat sauntered past, and she thought of it all alone in the darkness, like her.

Determinedly, she stared at the blue-black sky, willing the sun to come back, ordering it. It couldn't just leave her like this, all alone and afraid. Hours passed and her eyelids grew sticky when she blinked, her eyes burning with exhaustion. A handful of times, she snapped her head up when gravity pulled it down towards her chest, but eventually her grip on the blanket loosened and her legs stretched out. Still, she glared at the sky, giving the delinquent sun that frightening glare her mother always used when she was unhappy with her. She focused all her energy on dragging the bright orb back above the horizon and into the sky. The sun _had_ to come back up; it just _had_ to… Vaguely, she registered a shock of cold against her temple as her head lulled against the window, and in her dream, she saw the brilliant golden light from behind her eyelids…

He smiled softly at the sight of his little girl curled up in the window seat with her blanket. She hated the dark, but she'd been too stubborn to come into their room since she was four. Apparently, even his little six-year-old had her pride. As he scooped her up in his arms and held her warm little body against his chest, he thought of all those terrifying child's nightmares, and wondered how long it would be until she outgrew them, until the world no longer seemed so scary. He kissed her on her cheek, then her button nose, and she pulled the blankets up past her chin in her sleep. 

"Goodnight, baby girl," he whispered, and a smile turned his daughter's mouth. 

When she opened her eyes again, she was tucked back in her deliciously soft, warm bed… And the sun was pouring through her window, warming her face to say hello. Smiling to herself, Claire giggled in delight. It had worked! The sun had come back up just for her. Until the nightmares waned and she didn't have to hide from night monsters anymore, she would climb into the window seat every night, willing with all her might for the sun to come back, and every morning, she opened her eyes to find it had obeyed her. 

Claire had just learned she could do anything, even control the stars.


	3. Thirteen

This night was going to kill her. All these screamed lectures were giving Claire a headache, and she had a line of red crescents on her arm where her mother's manicure had broken the skin. The woman was incensed, and her daughter was suffering for it. Designer dresses and shoes obscured most of the bed, and she'd narrowly missed half a dozen hurling hangers. At least none of them had racked out a window. Her graphite eyes narrowed menacingly at the gown her mother was holding up now.

"I can't _breathe_ in that, just like the last five. And I'm not wearing those shoes, either; they're torture devices."

"I will not hear any more of your wining, Claire," she snapped, looking like she was ready to strike her. "It's critical that Mr. Nordin is impressed tonight and that means we all have to put our best foot forward. His company is willing to put up half a million for the campaign. I will _not_ let him see an insolent little girl who cannot conduct herself properly. You're thirteen years old. I shouldn't have to tell you this."

Digging her own nails into her palms, Claire turned away towards the window, unwilling to show how much her dismissiveness hurt. One minute she was a practically full-grown adult who was more than capable of handling adult matters, and the next she was an impertinent toddler who comprehended nothing. Evidently she was old enough for make-up - but not her mother's respect.

"You liked all of these when we bought them," Claire gestured towards her bed and the piles of rejected dresses and stilettos. "Daddy isn't going fail after all this because I picked the wrong dress."

"You don't understand, Claire, how important this is. You're not old enough. The entire election and possibly your father's business could ride on the people coming. The world's most important decisions are usually dictated by a small number of the most powerful people in the right room together."

By the time it was over, she'd gone through fifteen different dresses and eighteen pairs of shoes - she'd counted every one of them, in between her mother's fits of screeching, red-faced hysteria over her abysmal choices. Every last detail about this night had to be _flawless_. Eventually, she slipped into a brand new gown of red lace with long lace sleeve and a keyhole back that went the length of her spine. Closing her eyes, Claire drew a deep breath in the blissful silence before she examined her reflection again. Her stomach fluttered even more the second time and she turned to peer at all different angels. It made her look like an elegant goddess, and nigh indestructible. A small smirk curved her lips. It was perfect. _She_ was perfect. Her mother couldn’t berate her for this.

A knock on the door made him look up from the book he was perusing.

Her dad beamed.

"Don't you look grown-up, sweetheart."

Her cheeks flushed slightly and she smiled; her stomach fluttered with incredible pride at the compliment. Most parents would balk at seeing their thirteen-year-old with clothes and a full face of make-up that made her look ten years older, but not hers. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she perched herself next to him on the arm of the chair, her chin resting easily against his shoulder.

"I'm so proud of you, Claire.”

"Mother's been awful," she whispered conspiratorially. He winced in sympathy.

"I could hear her. But don't worry about her, Claire. You're going to do great tonight-"

"Claire! Stand up straight before you wrinkle that dress. You'll look like you've been rolling around in the stables." Before Claire had time to do more than blink, Elizabeth turned for the door. "And for god's sake, will you smile? You look like you've eaten something sour."

The shoes crushed her toes and it took all of forty-five minutes for the balls of her feet to throb and for it to feel like she was standing on knives. But they were beautiful and that was all that mattered. That _she_ was beautiful. Tonight was going to kill her, but she'd find a way to endure it, like everything else: With a smile.

A lanky, handsome man about her dad's age approached her and mock bowed over her hand with a devilish grin and a confident flourish.

"Claire, it's so good to finally meet you. May I say, you look lovely tonight." She gave a dazzling sweet smile in return.

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Nordin."

The man flirted shamelessly as they danced, and his six feet of height left her wondering if he really was trying to look down her dress. She was growing into a woman's figure, but surely her father's business friend wouldn't think that way about a teenager? Nevertheless, in that moment, it didn't bother her nearly as much as it should have. In this dress, she felt every inch her father's daughter: like a young queen. No one could touch her, not the questionable drunk men leering behind their glasses, or anyone firing very complexly adult, very serious political questions at her and expecting fittingly expert answers in return. She may be all of thirteen, but tonight she looked more than twenty, and Claire intended to act like it. When she parted company with Nordin, she found herself sipping sparkling cider in another circle of political analysts and consultants, eloquently answering their questions and countering with her own, though she lacked their benefit of alcohol to ease her nerves. Her stomach twisted with excitement as they spoke; this was where she belonged, what she loved. From their treatment, she realized they saw not a teenager wading far out of her depths, but a young woman preparing to one day take her father's place.

Towards two in the morning, when her gorgeous armor was back on its hanger and she'd pried off those perfect but torturous shoes, Claire stared absently at the ceiling, dreaming. The right clothes could make her feel like she could do anything, and she started planning a wardrobe for the day when politics was more than party conversation and became her job.

* * *

Frank smiled at his wife in the mirror as he did up her buttons with deft, straying fingers. He pressed kisses to her shoulders that made her shiver despite herself, occasionally letting his mouth stray to her neck. 

"Francis." Her quirking smile in the reflection turned the admonishment into approval.

“This is one of my favorites.”

The dress was black, long-sleeved with a figure-hugging bodice that went to an A-line skirt. It felt like armor, and it made her feel almost invincible. Analyzing her reflection, she remembered how she was even more grateful on days like this that she'd cut her hair. There was nothing to hide behind, and that absence sharpened her features and lent her a stronger look of power. These negotiations could go well past dinner, and she would need every weapon she could muster if they were going to get anywhere at all.

* * *

Every man down the table glanced up when she opened the door. First, their gazes took in her dress and figure, then wandered up to her face, highlighted by perfectly executed make-up. Winged eyeliner she'd chosen for the occasion enhanced her graphite stare that assessed each of them in turn, businessmen on the right, politicians on the left. A few of their mouths opened, some of their spines straightened, but in a matter of moments, all of them understood she had come to win.

Assuming her seat next to Francis at the head of the table, she folded her hands on top of the leather-bound portfolio. Claire flashed her best dazzling smile.

"Gentlemen, let's talk about why your residents can set their water on fire."

It went downhill as fast as she'd thought it would, and they were lucky it hadn’t degenerated into blows.

A lot of the families in these districts had depended on the mines for their livelihoods for generations, and now those same companies had abandoned them.

"Mrs. Underwood, again, there is no reliable evidence that the operations of my company, or anyone else's at this table, has contaminated the water supplies. Furthermore, _again_ , neither have we found any conclusive evidence that the local water is in any way unsafe for use or consumption."

They'd gone around in circles like this for hours already. 

Her head ached. Her head ached, and she wanted to kill something.

"Coal's the only thing keeping our states running, Frank. We eliminate coal, towns die, entire counties die."

"Cut the bullshit, Pitman," Frank shot back. "What do the people in your district have _with_ coal right now? Their economies are some of the worst the country, and that hasn't changed without it. And they get treated like shit. You're all fucking over your own people because you're too lazy to actually _do_ anything. Claire and I can help you make millions of lives better. We've done most of the groundwork already. We're practically offering it to you on a platter, and you're _still_ too goddamned lazy to take it. You're _poisoning_ the people who voted for you because you can't be bothered to get off your ass and give a fuck. Look at this." Claire poured water from a bottle into a metal cup, then sparked her lighter. Flames jumped to life. "Would you let your kids drink that shit, Howard? Would you let them touch it?" One of the company presidents twitched in his seat.

"Domestic so-called _humanitarian_ projects would cripple these people's pride. They're a self-sufficient bunch and they won't take kindly to charity. Especially from outsiders."

"But this isn't charity." She leaned forward just fractions of an inch. "Wouldn't it better serve these hard-working miners' pride and self-worth to be able to say that they're valued and have leaders who advocate for their health and well-being? Because let's be honest, going back and forth on weather or not the water supply is actually drinkable when it has so many chemicals in it it's liable to explode is bad for you." She turned cutting gray eyes on the business side of the table. "I know you think you're saving money by pretending there isn't a problem and pretending you didn't cause it, but in a matter of years, American coal will be completely unviable. It's been on its last legs for a long time now. Either your companies will be dead with it, or you can be the ones who transformed these good people's lives and helped them to gain prosperity and living-wage jobs. Starting with their water." Her gaze swept over both the businessmen and the politicians now rigid in their seats. "CWI can partner with your companies and your states to help with that. We have decades of experience both internationally and domestically and great recourses we can tap into, while Francis helps you boys craft legislation in Congress to improve your citizens' current circumstances and their prospects. The President already has a job transition and retraining program started with solid success rates and we could work together to make it even better. The world is always changing; why not harness that to your advantage?" Her husband spread his hands towards his fellow representatives in an almost supplicant gesture, a smirk on his lips and an extra couple layers on his Southern-blue-collar accent.

"I know what it's like to break your back for a living trying to put food on the table and keep a roof over your head. My daddy was a peach farmer, and I'm damn proud of where I came from. But I also know that no matter how hard you work, not a day goes by that you don't wish you could earn a little better wages for it, that you could have just _one shot_ at the chances that other people get handed to them. What Claire and I are offering isn't a handout, and it isn't an insult. We want to help you help these hard-working, honest people better themselves. Trapping them in a 1949 economy and denying them the chance to see anything better is only going to hurt them and send you lower in the stock market and farther behind." Claire offered the men only a hint of a smile.

"You can cling to the past, or you can look to the future. Most of you came from the same kinds of arduous, dead-end circumstances they did. These people deserve to hold their heads high again, don't you think?"

Rapt, the men listened, they leaned towards her, drawn, and Claire knew she'd won.

 


End file.
